


Unnatural, Consistent Mind

by ScarletteStar1



Series: I WILL FIND YOU- AU and Canon Divergent Stories about OTPs Reaching Across Time and Space To Be Where They Belong [13]
Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Nazis are the woooorrrsssttttt, Thomas - Freeform, Time Travel, but also lots of other John Smiths as well, different timeline, psychiatry, very broody John smith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Juliana was the same in every dimension. . . but John was not. . .Somehow, she found herself in world after world of the Multiverse, in exactly the same places and times as him. And as she watched, as she bore witness to all the various versions of him, she learned, and somehow found connection.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: the author of this work is a hardcore FAR LEFT LIBERAL who does not in any way shape or form condone any type of hate, discrimination, racism, or antisemitism. Any reference to Nazis or the Nazi ideology is purely in keeping in the theme of the show, and does not reflect the views of this writer. Frankly, Nazis can go fuck themselves. This is a work of fiction, based on the themes and characters of The Man In The High Castle.

She sat on the couch.

She was beautiful. There was no arguing that.

He’d heard comments regarding her appearance, first when she was in the emergency room, and then when she’d been placed under his care on his ward. Each time, he’d verbally reprimanded the men making the comments, while mentally he reprimanded himself for agreeing with them.

Even in the stiff, gray, hospital-issued outfit, she managed to appear dignified, almost spectacular.

She was rare.

And he was not a good man.

At least she didn’t have any Semite blood in her. He didn’t know what he would have done if he’d found her gene pool tainted after he’d admitted to himself he found her exotically gorgeous, after he’d imagined her with a flower tucked behind an ear and not another single stitch of clothing on those long, nubile limbs.

At least she was Aryan. But still, he knew his shame. It churned in his gut like he’d eaten something sour when he was supposed to be formulating words to tell Helen how lovely she looked and how divine supper was. He contemplated all the ways he could rise above and atone.

Still. . .

There was a job to be done.

And he was not above plundering. He was not above collecting shiny spoils of war for whatever they were worth.

He crossed ankle over knee and leaned back in his chair. She pressed her knees together and looked out his window at the swaying oak trees.

“Tell me about the accident, Miss Crain,” he said. He said it in a tone he’d perfected; at once casual, but commanding. His patients never resisted it. When he used it, they opened themselves and poured all their secrets out before him. They emptied their pockets and he filled his.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” she said, still watching the trees tickle the sky. Slowly, she rotated her head back toward center. She tipped her head down and looked at the floor and then she looked back up, but without moving her head. The effect was strangely compelling, almost confronting.

The healing hand was supposed to be the upper hand, or so he’d been taught in medical school.

“But that’s what you are here to talk about,” he tried. The case file said she had _an unnatural, consistent mind._ She was special. She knew things. But he needed to take her back, back to the beginning.

“And if I don’t talk about what you want me to talk about, Doctor Smith? What then?” She asked with a voice soft as melted chocolate. He looked at her with smoky, green eyes. She supposed his face was meant to be impassive, but she sensed frustration on his forehead, and tightness in his jaw. She watched as he tried to smile, as he tried to feign something like kindness. He took a cigarette from the dispenser next to him and lit it with a big, shiny, silver lighter. He took a long drag and blew the smoke in two plumes out of his nostrils before he offered her a cigarette. She leaned forward on the couch and accepted the slender thing between her fingers. Her eyes practically crossed as she watched his hand approach her face with that big, old lighter. She inhaled and relaxed back onto the couch.

“What would you like to talk about, Miss Crain?” He asked. He allowed for a few beats of silence. Then, “How about you talk about how you took that bullet to your shoulder?” He’d been called to examine her in the hospital. She’d been delirious from the infected bullet wound, which they treated, but in her delirium, she’d raved about things only top tier officials had clearance to know. When she’d rolled over and turned her back to him, her untied hospital robe had opened and it was then he’d seen the scars that painted her back like the translucent skeletons of snakes.

Even now, sitting in his crisp suit in his formal chair with his expensive pen, his fingers twitched remembering how tempted he’d been to touch those wounds. How he’d longed to reach out and trace the delicate white trails of damage over her scapula toward her waist.

“I don’t really feel compelled to speak with you about anything, Dr. Smith,” Juliana replied.

“And yet, we all have a job to do,” he suggested with a wave of his hand. “My job is to help you confront your past, and your job is to, well, confront it.”

“To what end, Doctor?”

“We’d like to help you to get better.” He flicked his eyes up at the ceiling and then looked directly at her with a smile that might have almost been described as coy.

“Better,” Juliana sniffed and opened her mouth in an incredulous smile. She uttered an ironic laugh. “Better?”

“Don’t you want to be better, Miss Crain?” Smith asked. He stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray and opened the chart on his lap. “Says here you’ve suffered from depression, anxiety, isolation, and affiliation with subversives in the past. Those are all things we can help you with here. We can alleviate your suffering.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“Ah, well, advances have been made in treatments for mental disorders. They are no longer considered defects to be eradicated. You can be cured and fulfill a useful and meaningful life here, Miss Crain.”

“Right,” she sighed. She spent a moment finishing her cigarette, then she crossed her arms over her chest. She turned her head and looked out the window. Suddenly a thought struck her. She looked back up at Smith. “Thomas.” Was all she said.

“What?” He asked.

“Is he here?”

“Miss Crain,” Smith grumbled. He looked around in what Juliana sensed was a combination of flustered irritation. “Your sessions are about you. You are here with me. There is no one named Thomas in the room with us.”

“Right. I know,” she breathed. “But, your son. Thomas. In this world, is he. . . is he alive?”

Smith opened his mouth and closed it. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How do you. . .” he began and caught himself.

“Please. You have a son. Thomas, right?”

“Yes,” Smith muttered reluctantly.

“And is he well? Is he alive?”

“Miss Crain, the doctor/patient relationship has boundaries for specific reasons. I do not disclose about my personal life with patients.”

Juliana sprung up from the couch and knelt before Smith. With any other patient, Smith would have pressed the button and called for the orderlies. His finger wasn’t even close to the button. Juliana put her hands on Smith’s knees. He felt her warmth, her realness through the fabric of his trousers. He stared at her hands. His own hands longed to cover hers; they did not long to press the button. He looked from her fingers to her face. She stared into his eyes, and for a moment he was convinced their eyes shared all the same flecks and freckles. He was convinced they were the same. He wondered what it would feel like to lay his face on her hair. Would it make him a good man?

“Please,” she begged. “Tell me. Is your Thomas alive?”

“Yes,” Smith croaked.

“Oh,” she gasped and smiled, but she felt the tears pool instantly in her eyes. She lowered her head to his knee and before she knew what she was doing, she kissed his leg, so palpable was her relief. “Thank you,” she said, clutching his hand which had come to cover her own.

“Go back to the couch now,” Smith growled low in his throat. Juliana nodded, and appeared meek for the first time in their entire session. She rose and moved back to the couch. When she’d resumed her position and swatted away her tears, Smith tried again. “Now, tell me about the accident so we can help to cure you, Miss Crain.”

Juliana took a deep breath and licked her lips. As much as she wanted to give him something in return for the knowledge that somewhere in time Thomas was existing, she could not give him that for which he asked. He looked almost like a petulant child, sitting there, pressing his lips together in a pout, wanting something he couldn’t have.

“Thing is, I don’t need to be cured,” she said at last. She looked back at Smith with that same challenging gaze.

“And why do you think that?”

“This isn’t where I belong,” she whispered. She could give him this. She leaned over her knees to look more closely at Smith. He mentally and desperately flipped back through thousands of pages of years of psychiatric training to remember what he was supposed to say, but found himself mesmerized by the silver flecks in her gray eyes. She rendered his throat barren of any words at all. His inability to speak seemed to amuse her. She smiled and continued, “You see, I don’t actually exist in this world. In your world. Here. That’s why I traveled here, to fill some sort of a gap. But this isn’t the place where I actually belong.” She paused and chuckled. “You think I’m crazy, but I’m not. Examine your records. You’ll find the real Juliana Crain died. I don’t know when. I just know she did. It’s why I was able to come here.”

He exhaled. “Very well, Miss Crain. I’m trying to help you, but if you are not going to cooperate, you can be returned to your room.” At this, he did press the button to summon an orderly to bring Juliana back to her cell.

Juliana stood. Even in the shapeless uniform, Smith sensed the slender curve of her waist, the strength of her thighs, and the plump muscle of her calf. She licked her lower lip and looked up from under her lashes at him in that subservient posture they teach women in the Pacific States. But there was nothing subservient in her eyes. She held Smith’s gaze. “For what it’s worth,” she said. “This isn’t a terrible version of you.” She reached out and touched his hand. His skin was cool and dry. Smith felt her fingers graze over his knuckles and he yanked his hand back as the door opened and the orderly entered.

The orderly took her by the arm, and led her from the room. Juliana looked back over her shoulder at Smith as she walked out. Smith turned back to his desk, enraged by her effortless beauty and stubbornness.

Her eyes seemed to stay in the room with him. They watched him for the rest of the afternoon as he wrote notes and saw patients. They followed him down the hall on his rounds and watched him give injections. They snuck into the men’s room and stared at him while he urinated. They hovered above him and bore witness as he poured himself a whiskey at the end of the day, picked up the phone to call Helen and tell her he would be late. Her eyes did not close for one moment, even as he made up his mind to go to the observation room and turn off the cameras and listening devices in her cell.

He would go to her.

He would examine those scars once and for all.

The cameras showed her sitting quietly on her bed, legs crossed, eyes closed. The technician did not question Smith’s request, and flicked the necessary switches.

As Smith strode decisively down the hall, fingers tingling, the lights flickered. There was a brief rattling noise and another flicker. He was distracted, urgent in his task, and could not be bothered to investigate the source of the disturbance.

He arrived at the door to her cell. His hands were so excited, he fumbled with the keys. He finally got the door unlocked and opened.

Juliana Crain was not on her bed. In fact, she was not in her cell at all.

John Smith stumbled out into the hallway and picked up the red telephone on the wall. “Sound the alarms,” he commanded. “We’ve had an escape.”


	2. Chapter 2

Later, much later, she would try to explain how it felt.

To travel.

Neither Tagomi nor Trudy had told her much about it- the feelings, the process, or how it happened. Their descriptions had focused more on their other worlds, their home worlds. Juliana figured that even if they had tried, she’d never have truly been prepared for what actually transcended when she allowed her body to dematerialize and reappear in a completely different dimension.

When she’d watched Trudy disappear before her in Tagomi’s sitting room, it had been quick and had seemed almost effortless. One moment, her sister sat across from her, and then the next, she was gone. All that was left of Tru was a little puff of air, scented with the powdery, vanilla perfume she favored. It had blown out the candle. In the gently whispering tendril of smoke from the candle, Juliana had not contemplated she herself would one day follow in her little sister’s footsteps through the Multiverse, that she would experience the phenomenon to describe it to anyone else later on.

The best she could approximate was that it was like falling asleep. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. It felt soft, fuzzy, almost like floating on water, then being sucked beneath it, but without any fear of suffocation. There was a sense of weightless suspension, and in that space, there was no pain or despair. Like being underwater, she could sense things were happening above or around her, but they were much muted. She could hear voices, or feel vibrations, but through a thick layer of time and space.

It could almost be described as lovely, the floating and drifting, but the very end, she caught herself. A sharp reflex startled her, and then, she arrived.

In some ways, it was incredibly simple, a part of her nature. In another way, it was something altogether unnatural and inconsistent with anything she’d ever experienced.

It was not altogether unpleasant.

But it was uncommon, and unpredictable in that she did not know where she would land. Perhaps at some point, she would have more control over a precise destination, but at this early stage, it seemed entirely random.

It depleted her mental and physical energies in ways she could not even begin to explain. When she found herself at her next station in the Multiverse, she wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, which of course she absolutely could not do.

Mercifully her wounds had been well tended in the hospital where John Smith had been her psychiatrist. That was a good thing. One thing she’d learned about traveling was that wounds travelled with her. Her bullet hole, inflicted by a different John Smith, inflicted by the John Smith who had been Reichsmarschall of the GNR, remained a constant source of discomfort in her left shoulder. The infection had been stopped, and the gash had been stitched, but a dull ache remained as a reminder of his frantic cruelty.

Rotating her shoulder and stretching, she remembered how panic painted his sharp features as she’d created the energy she needed to travel. She saw the instant reflex of his hand draw his weapon and she saw his finger squeeze the trigger without a second of hesitation. She sensed the desperation he felt as she began to disappear before his very eyes, signaling another failure for him. No matter what he wanted to believe, his failures would not build great success.

His was the worst variety of evil. His was an evil that did not even recognize itself for what it was, an evil that justified itself in the name of righteousness and purity. Juliana massaged the tender spot on her shoulder and cursed him under her breath.

Dr. Smith, the psychiatrist, had still been a Nazi, but she had sensed conflict in him. She had sat across from him for those sessions, and though they were pointless, she’d found herself almost fond of the frustrated man. Yet, for any possible feelings of positivity toward him, he had still ultimately been her captor.

At least wherever she was now, she was free for the time being. She could regroup. Figure out how to get back to Wyatt and rework their plan to destroy that machine. And then, she would destroy Smith. She pinched the insides of her arms, trying to revive herself. She couldn’t sleep. She needed to plan.

Another thing she’d learned about traveling was that she traveled in the same attire from one universe to the next. So, when she found herself in prickly bushes of her next destination, she was not surprised to realize she was still in the scratchy, gray garb of the psychiatric prison in which she’d previously been kept.

It took a moment for her heart and breath to regulate, as though she’d just woken from a hectic dream. She allowed herself to adjust to her new surroundings as adrenaline dissipated from her muscles. It was sunny and warm. Trees were lush with leaves. Juliana breathed into the new space. The air was fresh and clean. Her body quivered with the stress of her most recent flight, but something about her new surroundings set her at ease. She heard a peculiar noise. A screech and a scream, but not out of fear. Pleasure? Her eyes had adjusted enough to the light to scan the environment and she realized she was in a park. Children played nearby, chasing one another with balls and bikes; the source, she realized of the screaming.

She found a bench, partially obscured by a group of flowering bushes, and sat down. Even in the sun, she shivered in her thin clothes. She needed a plan. People strolled by in colorful attire that was relaxed and flowy. It did not seem like she was in New York. She definitely wasn’t in the Neutral Zone- no one there possessed that much color. She felt sorely out of place in her drab clothing, and feared someone would notice her and call the authorities. Crossing her arms over her chest, she tried to think of how she could acquire more appropriate clothes.

Her mind scrambled to calculate how long she might have been held in the psychiatric facility. It had been cold when she’d been captured in the Poconos. What month had it been when she’d entered the Lackawanna mines with Wyatt Price? She couldn’t quite recall; she only remembered seeing her own breath. The electroconvulsive treatment she’d been given by the fuck head Nazis had done a number on her memory, but it had also seemed to create a psychic flexibility that allowed her to travel. Regardless of the failure of her memory to recall exact dates and details, it hardly seemed plausible she’d been kept in the psych facility for an entire season.

“Kids, kids!” She heard the familiar voice and at once her body readied itself to flee. Her heart rate accelerated and she leapt back behind the bushes. “Come on now, smile! Amy, over here. Thomas, say cheese. Jennifer, come on! There we go!”

She peeked out and looked around. He was there with the three children, posing them in front of a fountain for a family picture. After he’d snapped the photo, the kids scattered to run and chase one another around the park. Smith put a lens cover on the camera he held and watched his children frolic with a pleased expression on his face.

Juliana bit her lip and widened her eyes to take it all in. She had somehow landed in another place with another John Smith. Exactly the same place and time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular consensus, I've written another chapter, and have more lined up if that is what you'd like to see. . . lmk... I try to respond to all comments and value them all very, very much.


	3. Chapter 3

Juliana came out from behind the bushes and sat again on the bench. Leaning forward with her arms on her lap, she watched as John Smith strode over to an ice cream stand. His gait was free from the formal tension of a Nazi superior. Even when she’d been to his home for supper and seen him among his family in the Reich, she’d not witnessed him as soft in his stance or supple in his motion as he was here and now in this park, purchasing frozen desserts. When his children saw him there, they flocked back to his side. He bought them each ice cream cones and a popsicle wrapped in paper for himself. He looked down as the boy at the cart placed his change in his palm, and then he looked back up and smiled at the young fellow. Juliana observed all of this, entranced by all the subtle differences. 

“Dad, can we walk down to the water and look at the boats?” Thomas asked. The sound of his voice drifting toward her on the breeze made Juliana smile. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but watch after your little sisters now, you hear?” John said and once again, the kids took off, this time at a slightly slower pace, but only because they were occupied eating their treats. He turned and seemed to look straight at her. Involuntarily, Juliana stiffened. Popsicle in hand, he walked toward her. 

“This seat taken?” He asked and smiled at her politely. 

“No,” she said and scooted a bit further to one side to make more room for him. He sat down and busied himself unwrapping what turned out to be a lime popsicle. He put it to his lips and bit off a chunk. Juliana could not help but stare. He wore no Nazi insignia whatsoever. In fact, he was dressed very informally in a sage green, short sleeved shirt and gray slacks, his camera draped around his neck. 

“You live here?” He asked her. 

“Not really,” she almost laughed. John Smith, or some version of him was making casual small talk with her. And absurdly enough, she did not even know where here was. 

“Us either,” he said and bit off another chunk of his popsicle. Juliana watched his jaw work in utter fascination. “We’re here on vacation. The wife always wanted to see San Francisco. She passed away last year. Made me promise I’d take the kids to see the Golden Gate Bridge.” He sighed. 

“Oh,” Juliana gasped, then offered, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She thought of the beautiful, stately woman who concerned herself with whether or not Juliana would enjoy eating pot roast and she wondered what that woman had been like in this realm. Something about the way John’s eye twitched at the corner threatened her heart, but she also thrilled to discover she was in San Francisco. Home. And more importantly, she had a friend and fellow traveller here. If she could find him, Tagomi could help her. 

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s been difficult for the kids. But the trip has been a good distraction.” 

“You all look like you’re having a fun time,” she said softly. She crossed her ankles together and relaxed a little. She watched him look out over the landscape of the park, toward the horizon where water sparkled like a blue, satin ribbon. His shirt was open at the neck, and she could see the ruddy but delicate skin that covered his throat. She watched as his Adams apple bobbed up and down with the minimal effort it took to swallow his mouth-melted popsicle. The black strap of his camera was twisted against his neck. Juliana had an urge to reach out, and just with a single finger, set it straight. She folded her hands on her lap. “Where are you from?”

“We live in Maryland now. I served in the Army during the war. Was stationed in Virginia and worked at the Pentagon. After Helen, my wife, died, I was able to take an early retirement. Because I was part of the team responsible for liberating the death camps and executing Hitler, they let me take full pension and benefits so I could care for the kids.” He paused as he noticed the expression on Juliana’s face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to brag, but other than my family, it’s my greatest pride.” 

Juliana’s eyes widened. She tried to lick her lips, but her mouth was so dry. Trying to bring some moisture to her tongue, she swallowed. “You retired from the Army? The United States Army?”

“Mmmh hmmh,” he nodded. He finished the last icy green chunk on his stick. He tossed the paper and stick into the trash basket next to their bench and stuck out his hand to her. “Major General John Smith. Well, retired Major General. Pleasure to meet you, Miss. . .”

“Crain,” she took his hand and shook it. “Juliana Crain. It’s so nice to meet you, John.” She stared at him in wonder, then she looked around the park at all the people in their bright clothes, and she realized she was in a world without Nazis. Furthermore, the man who’s green eyes held hers in their luminous gaze, was responsible for bringing down Hitler. 

“Are you alright, Miss Crain?” John asked her. 

“Yes,” she stammered. “Yes, of course. I’m just . . . well, I’ve never met anyone directly responsible for overthrowing the Nazis. I am in your debt.” The breeze blew her hair into her face, and she brushed it away as she smiled up into his face. In this world, he had a face that was kind and sad and openly expressed these feelings. 

“Oh, it was women like you and my Helen that kept things running smoothly at home so we men could fight. I’d have to say I was in your debt as well.” His eyes swept over her, almost as though he was seeing her for the first time. “Are you sure you’re well?” His brows twitched in concern. 

Juliana realized in her sterile, hospital attire and in her exhausted state she must have looked odd at the very least. She nodded her head and pressed her lips together. She was suddenly desperately thirsty and famished as well. She’d taken as little food and beverage in the psychiatric facility as possible, as she’d not known if her food had been tainted with drugs, and they had already been giving her enough medication to sedate a horse there. Suddenly, John’s children came racing back up the hill. They paused to spin around, and looked for him. When they saw him on the bench with Juliana, they ran toward them, flushed and smiling. John and Juliana stood to greet them. 

“Dad the boats were huge! They have an old battleship docked down there and are selling tickets to see it! Can we go?” Thomas asked. 

“I suppose we can check it out, but children, mind your manners. Please meet Miss Juliana Crain. Miss Crain, these are my three children, Thomas, Jennifer, and Amy.” 

“Hello,” Juliana said softly. She bowed her head and smiled at the children. The two girls grinned at Juliana, but Thomas looked at her as though confused. Juliana met his stare and considered him as well. He’d blushed from the sun and from his run up the hill. He looked healthy and happy. He wore a orange and blue striped sweater and jeans that were just slightly too short for his lanky legs. Juliana fought the urge to lunge at him and embrace him. 

“Do we know you from Maryland?” Thomas asked. “How are you here?”

“Thomas!” John said in a sternly paternal voice. “Miss Crain is from . . . ummmh, I’m sorry, Miss Crain, you didn’t say where you were from.”

“No, I didn’t,” Juliana said. “I’m from Pennsylvania, but I’m visiting San Francisco for work. It is very nice to meet all of you.” 

“Do you like my new dress?” Amy spun around in her bright pink and yellow floral dress. 

“Very much. You look lovely,” Juliana said. 

“Why are you dressed like that?” Jennifer asked with a grimace. Juliana saw John wince at the awkwardness of his daughter’s question. Juliana smiled graciously at him as thought to reassure him it was okay. 

“I need to dress like this for work,” she said. 

“What do you do for work?” Amy pressed. 

“I work on a machine,” Juliana said without a moment’s hesitation. “I try to make sure that everything is safe for sweet, beautiful kids like you.” 

“Well, that sounds important, doesn’t it children?” John said and the children all nodded. They were clearly trying to be polite to Juliana to please their father, but they were also obviously eager to continue their exploration. 

“It was so nice to meet you all,” Juliana said. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your trip.” She stepped away and broke the circle of their little gathering. 

“I don’t suppose you’d want to join us?” John said, stepping toward her and extending his hand, palm up. The hopeful expression on his face was almost endearing. 

“I’m sorry. I wish I could,” Juliana said and looked at Thomas as she said this. “But I really must be going. I’ve an old friend waiting for me.”

“Very well then. Good day, Miss Crain,” John said, unable to conceal the disappointment on his face. “Perhaps we will meet again. Another time.”

“Yes. Perhaps,” Juliana bowed slightly and then realized it would be an incredibly bizarre gesture to make. She smiled warmly and turned to walk away. As she walked off to find her way out of the park, she heard the children and John talking amongst themselves. 

“She was so beautiful,” Amy said. “She had eyes like a fairy.”

“I thought she was strange,” Jennifer said in a stiff voice. 

“She looked awfully familiar, didn’t she, Dad?” 

“Hmmmh,” John sighed in agreement. “I suppose she did, Thomas. I suppose she did.”


	4. Chapter 4

The elevator door opened and John Smith, Reischmarschall of the Greater Nazi Republic, stepped into his Manhattan home. It was dark. He’d sent Bridget away indefinitely, and when he’d left the apartment early that morning, he’d not thought to leave any lights on for his homecoming much later that evening. So it was dark, cold, and empty as a tomb. For all their lavish and plush furniture, he was quite certain that if he yelled in the deep and primal manner that so tempted him at that very moment, his cries would echo not only throughout his home, but throughout the canyons of New York City.

But there was the rub. His house hadn’t been a home for some time, had it?

He couldn’t get to the decanter of scotch quickly enough. He didn’t even bother to take off his coat prior to pouring himself a drink. He filled his cut crystal tumbler to the rim. He drank it down without pausing, then set it back on the bar and filled it again. Before drinking this second serving, he did shake off his overcoat. He let it fall onto a chair and snorted angrily at the fact there was not a female in the goddamn place to hang it for him.

As he wrapped one hand around the cool glass, he used the other to loosen his tie. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and tried to take a breath. He was too restless to sit, so he strode to the windows to gaze down on the city below. Weeks had passed since the celebrations of Jahr Null, but aftershocks of the riots still rippled throughout the city, and the destruction was magnificent. Himmler remained unconscious, his broken body being kept alive mostly by machines at this point.

He leaned his forehead against the windowpane. Himmler’s words, or more accurately, his threat, had lingered in his mind these past weeks. _You will get your house in order_ , he had barked at Smith, moments prior to watching the devastation of Lady Liberty. As he’d clutched the railing of the ship, Smith had gritted his teeth and felt the awful lurch of his stomach.

 _When had it all gone so wrong?_ He wondered and sipped his drink. When had his home stopped being a home and turned into a mausoleum? His mind scrambled to track back. The past weeks had been a hectic blur of tending to matters of state while Himmler lay victim of his own grandiose gala. Jahr Null. Of all the painfully idiotic and treacherous bullshit the Reich had dreamt up, that had to be the topper.

Standing before the window, Smith tried like hell to remember his childhood, before the war, before the Nazi regime had claimed his every move. All his memories seemed dark or at the least deeply shadowed. 

His fist tightened around the glass. He was tempted to throw it across the room. How satisfying it would be to hear the shattering of glass, and why the fuck not? The rest of the city was in shambles. It would take months to sweep the broken bits of humanity from the streets. Himmler had thrilled at the prospect of an American Kristallnacht. “What a bloody fool,” Smith hissed as he gulped his liquor.

His body ached for his wife and children. It was as if he were sick with longing. He remembered hearing about soldiers who’d lost limbs in the war, who would still scream in agony as though their leg or arm were still on their very body, injured and throbbing with pain. Phantom limb syndrome, he remembered it was called. As he paced his apartment, he imagined himself suffering from such a disorder. His own family had been chopped away from him, bit by bit, leaving him with little more than the bloody disfiguration of his longing.

 _For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son. . .Tom. . . Tom the Piper’s son, stole a pig and away did run!_ Abendsen had ranted in his cell, and yet even in his mind addled ravings, he’d given Smith pause. Wasn’t that what had happened to the Smiths? Hadn’t they given their only son for the cause, their God? The Reich? Thomas had been a sacrifice. He had sacrificed himself and in doing so, had warped their family beyond recognition. For whatever John Smith had tried to claim in order to rationalize the loss to his wife or his daughters, it had been nothing more than the hacking away of a piece of what he’d held so dear.

And yet. . .

Things had begun shifting prior to Thomas giving himself over to the Public Health Department. Hadn’t they though? “Yes,” Smith growled as he tossed back the remainder of his drink and walked back to pour himself another. “Juliana Crain,” he hissed around a mouthful of scotch. Somehow, with her appearance in his life, all of the things he held so dear had begun to disappear. Sitting on the couch, he thought of how his life seemed to sink beneath the surface of anything he’d ever recognized to be real or true, much like that statue sunk into the harbor several weeks ago. Gone even was the familiar and submissive face of his assistant Erich Raeder. Why he didn’t even have the accusing and angry voice of Joe Blake crackling across the phone wires any longer.

Rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip, he couldn’t remember the last time he cried. It crossed his mind he should eat something, as the alcohol roiled in his stomach, but he was too tired, too defeated to rise from his position on the sofa. He held a hand before his bleary eyes and moved it back and forth. _How had she done it?_ How had she evaporated before his very eyes? Had he not seen it, he’d never have believed it.

He had Abendsen moved to New York City to be held in a facility closer to him. For weeks he resisted going to him and interrogating him personally, although the questions bubbled up in him like a pot of scorching oatmeal left on a stove. Smith had been busy and distracted enough, but something about the silence of his empty home (which was no longer a home) had him now poised to scrape that blistering pot of inquisition right out into a bin.

He needed to know.

He needed them back.

He needed his family. All of them. No longer could he bear the pain of the phantom limbs that had been chopped from him. He needed his wife and his girls.

And he would find and get his son back too. He’d seen him. He’d seen Thomas in the films, laughing and having a happy day out. Somewhere, Thomas was out there, and Smith would get him back.

Piece by piece, limb by limb, he would put his family back together. He’d make Abendson tell him how to do it.

The urge to throw the crystal tumbler had passed. Now he was just weary to his bones. He finished the third drink and set the glass on the end table. Without bothering to even take off his boots, he reclined on the couch. In exhaustion, he closed his eyes and willed sleep to claim him. No sooner had he drifted to dreams of drunken despair, he was jolted by Juliana Crain’s gray eyes. Snapping his own eyes open wide, he found the entire apartment cast in an eerie shadow, as though he were seeing it through the foggy lens of her eye. He sat up and opened his eyes wider. His breath came hard.

_How heavy that must weigh on you._

Her words echoed throughout his apartment as he slumped back against his couch and felt the surprising moisture of tears slide down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this... comments are like air to me, so if you feel like saying hi, please please do!!! If you are still enjoying this, I might continue a few more chapters... lmk! xoxo.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read my story. xoxoxo.


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